


maybe these words will hold the beast back

by oleanderflowers



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Post Episode: s07e12 Victory and Death, Post-Order 66 (Star Wars), Writing/Journaling as a Coping Mechanism, probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:49:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28641759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oleanderflowers/pseuds/oleanderflowers
Summary: The Republic falls, the Empire rises, and Rex is left alone with the past on his breath and memories always on his mind. Between working and trying to finds leads on his brothers, he manages to keep himself busy, but during slow days and long nights, he doesn't know what else to do. So he writes.(Alternatively, an exploration of mourning, loss, family, and reminiscing.)
Relationships: CT-7567 | Rex & Ahsoka Tano, CT-7567 | Rex & CC-3636 | Wolffe
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	maybe these words will hold the beast back

**Author's Note:**

> Large areas of italics show writing/journaling in story. Couldn't get those cool fonts I used on docs so the italics work just fine. There is also an overuse of horizontal lines because those are used for time skips and differences in journal entries.

There are rows of broken, dirty helmets facing him. Held up on sticks, their blank visors stare at nothing. They are not neat rows; the process to make the rows was full of the sudden lack of adrenaline and shakiness. But now all the helmets have been placed, long rows with a painfully familiar helmet in the front and center.

All Rex can think about is each brother he lost. Each brother who lost themself. Each blaster fired and every life taken and the fact that he and Ahsoka could very well be the only ones left.

The ship is prepared, everything is ready to go, and he tries to ignore the way his hands shake. There’s dirt and soot and blood on his gloves, painting his armor from the digging and the burying. 

He joins Ahsoka at the grave and can’t decide if he should look away or not. Every glance at the helmets brings a twist to his chest, a fresh collection of tears in his eyes, but he owes it to them to look. To see the helmets and ingrain each one further into his memory. Who will remember them except for him and Ahsoka?

They’re marching away now, in a better place than this sudden hell. Rex hopes that his _vode_ are safe now, that they don’t blame themselves for what they did, that they don’t blame him for not stopping it. 

_From water we're born, in fire we die. We seed the stars._ That’s what most of the _vode_ were told, and while some take it as a comforting line, Rex can only think of it as an empty, encompassing promise. 

And oh, how can they seed the stars from here?

There’s a lightsaber on the ground. He stares at that now, trying to ignore the tears dripping down his face. Ahsoka shifts at his side, a tentative, “Rex?” breaking the silence, and he suddenly can’t ignore anything anymore.

The tears flow and he can’t stop them.

* * *

They part ways in the end. It’s safer that way, really. They promise to keep in touch and Ahsoka goes off on her own. Rex stays on the backwater planet they were on with an almost broken ship and not a lot else.

He tells himself that it’s fine, that he can cope, but who is he to lie to himself? It hasn’t gotten easier. Hell, the nightmares haven’t stopped, and the pain hasn’t faded at all. The wounds are still fresh and bleeding.

There’s a constant ache in his chest from loneliness. He busies himself with following leads about his surviving brothers and working whatever odd jobs he can get. If he’s distracted enough, then he can forget about things for a little bit. It’s hard enough not to be recognized as a deserter clone. Maybe he can remake that old disguise he had when Ahsoka got involved in the podracing thing, he muses.

When he’s not caught up in things, his mind is full of his brothers. He recites their names to himself every night, when he’s sitting alone in the bunk of his little ship. Wonders if Cody’s still alive. Thinks about Fives (he should have listened to him), Jesse (he should have saved him), Kix (he should have looked harder), Echo, and Tup and Dogma and Hardcase and everyone. Each name and it’s companion of ‘should of’s. 

What makes him different from them? Why does he keep living, keep surviving as everyone dies around him? The Jedi would probably say that it’s “the will of the Force”, but that explanation can’t always be enough. 

The memories and the constant thoughts _hurt_. It feels like a blaster bolt tearing up his chest when he reminisces on anything, whether it be happy or the opposite. He wants to find a way to make it hurt less, to dull the pain, but the only options he can think of aren’t desirable.

He knows it won’t be long before his current way of dealing with things becomes too much. Overworking himself won’t solve anything in the long run. Drinking is out of the question, and so are most things. He can almost hear Kix telling him to find an actually healthy coping mechanism.

Of course, there’s a recurring problem; Rex is, in many ways, alone. There’s no one to really talk to. He sighs and draws his knees up to his chest, fingers tapping idly against plastoid armor. He strains his mind to think about other good things the medics recommended, things that would help anyone after a battle or a particularly bad campaign. 

And then, a random memory comes, one of a certain late Commander Mag and one of his boys. Rex remembers how Mag had mentioned that his latest shiny, Shiv, liked to write letters to his dead batchmate. Shiv’s letters were discovered alongside his mutilated, frozen body on Orto Plutonia.

But still, writing letters, even to someone who would never receive them, apparently helped with things. Now that he thinks about it, Rex is pretty sure that most medics recommend at least some form of writing as closure. Probably because the medics preferred that method over beating the shit out of a punching bag for a few hours or bottling things up to the breaking point.

So perhaps he will try that. He’s only typically written status reports and messages to others, and isn’t quite sure if writing will really help, but he doesn’t have to figure that out just yet. He has a list of things to do, from those small jobs he’s been picking up to getting more food and supplies without being noticed. One thing at a time and all that.

For now, he turns back to his work and puts the idea to the back of his mind.

* * *

He’s finishing up a job when he finally makes his decision. The job in question is nothing big; just him transporting cargo from one outpost to another. He’s done a few hauling jobs for this company, mainly because most of the people who work for it always have good leads and things that just might lead him to a brother. Also, no one asks where he came from. They just tell him to do things and pay him for it.

The cargo is dropped off and the person that’s present there starts giving him the credits he’s earned. “No trouble on the run?” they inquire.

“None,” Rex answers.

“Mm, that’s good.” They finish counting out the credits and drop them into his hands. “Anything else I can get ya? Got a few drinks in the back.”

Rex hums as he pockets the credits. “Do you have a flimsibook and some pencils?”

They tilt their head at him before nodding. “Yeah, there are a few spare ones around. You can have ‘em if you want.”

“That’d be appreciated, thanks.” Again, no questions asked as they go to the back of the shop and come back with a flimsibook and a handful of dull pencils.

“Here,” they simply say, and send him on his way with a, “Someone will call you when the next cargo shipment’s ready.”

He mumbles his thanks and shoves the pencils into his pocket. His ship is landed just outside, so he returns to it and takes a small inventory on what he has and what he needs.

He places the flimsibook on the counter in the ship’s little living area. It sits there heavily, and Rex can’t help but think it’s burning a hole through the counter. He leaves it for now, goes back to looking for leads and situating himself for the night. 

He doesn’t come back to the flimsibook until a few hours later. There’s nothing else to do, nothing else to busy himself with, so he sits at the counter and spreads the pencils out next to the book.

The flimsibook is nothing much. The cover for it is thick, binding together the sheets of yellowed flimsi rather well. It’s simple but efficient, light and rough to the touch. He runs his hand over the cover before opening it and looking down at the blank flimsi sheets. 

It’s then that he realizes that he doesn’t know what to write. For all of the emotions and thoughts swirling around in his head, he can’t pick out one to put into words. Does he write a journal? A story? A status report?

So he starts with the things that are important. He writes down each of his _vode_ ’s names, every one that he can remember, so that even if he dies or loses the flimsibook, then at least someone can find it and see the names. 

And then the words come.

_We weren’t made to be alone. We were made to fight, made to be soldiers and nothing else. They died for twisted purposes and thieving words. Where is the glory in that, the justice in that, the nobility in so many brothers with their minds stolen? Who will remember our tragedy?_

_The chrono says it’s 1900 hours. It’s Primesday. Two days and it’ll be the two month mark since everything went down. This ship is small and there is no company beside myself and the occasional acquaintance. Ahsoka sends messages once and awhile, so it’s not too bad. Can’t go most places, though. There are kriffing bounties out for deserters, apparently. Surprised the Empire cares about that._

_I’ve got enough credits to get enough fuel and food to last for a week or two. I finally found a good place to take small shipment jobs here and there. Thought about picking up bounty hunter jobs, but that’d bring too much notice. I don’t think taking bounties is what I need right now._

He writes, and writes, until the page is filled with small, scrawled letters. He still doesn’t know what it is, but it feels like a journal, so he ends it like one.

‘ _CT-7567_ ’ he signs on instinct, before crossing that out. ‘ _Captain Rex_ ’, he tries, and that’s better but still not right.

‘ _Rex_ ’ he finally settles on, and it fits.

* * *

_I think about them a lot. Maybe Cody’s still out there, maybe he didn’t die. I don’t know what option’s worse._

* * *

_Maybe the Siege could have gone better. We (the 332nd and I) had teamed up with Bo-Katan Kryze’s Mandalorians, because she and Ahsoka were helping each other now. Most of the Mandalorians didn’t care about us. They didn’t want us there and neither did Kryze. Funnily enough, she had been the one to ask us to help,_

_So maybe if we’d stayed on Mandalore a little longer, the ordeal could’ve gone better. More of my vode could’ve been de-chipped instead of trapped on a sinking ship. I don’t think the Nite Owls would have helped us, though._

_Still a nice thought._

* * *

_I once met a deserter. I was on Saleucami, hunting down General Grievous with Jesse, Kix, and Hardcase. We’d been on speeder bikes and a sniper droid took a shot at me. Good thing it missed my heart._

_The boys got me to a barn, kept going on the mission, and next thing I know, I’m meeting a man who shares my face. Cut Lawquane was his name. I hope he and his family are alright._

_I couldn’t quite grasp why he’d desert, why he’d leave behind his brothers and the Republic. He said that he had nothing left and that it was a matter of life or death. I didn’t turn him in, but I didn’t understand._

_I do now. I could never have been a deserter myself; still had the 501st to look after. But now they’re all gone. I could go see if Cut’s okay, but I don’t want to endanger his family, and who knows if his chip was activated or not. His wife probably figured something out. I doubt anything’s getting past her, but still. They deserve better than to be put in any more danger._

_It’s hard to know anything nowadays. Most brothers are either dead or stuck in the Empire, but there are still some that I don’t know the whereabouts of at all. Kix, for starters. He simply disappeared one day. He wouldn’t desert, Jesse was sure of it. I just hope he’s living a better life if he’s still alive._

_And what about Echo? He was with the Bad Batch last time I saw him, but who knows what they’re all doing. Can’t tell a kriffing thing._

* * *

_Heard hints of a lead from the latest employers. There have been rumors circulating around cantinas and workplaces and just about anywhere bored people are. Apparently there’s talk of eventually phasing out my brothers. Discarding them. Those bastards took my vode’s free will and are going to toss them aside like they’re nothing._

Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum. _I’ll remember them. Even if the Empire won’t, if the entire galaxy won’t, I will._

_Back to the point, there are still leads available if I look hard enough. With any luck, these ones won’t end with disappointment or death._

* * *

The weeks pass by, long and busy, before the lead he’s been following finally brings him to something. More accurately, someone. Reports come in about the Empire’s presence on a planet not too far. Rex doesn’t want to get his hopes up about a brother being among their ranks (and rescuable), but he’s still immensely overjoyed at the revelation that yes, a brother is there. The information and files say that CC-3636 is present among that presence, and Rex can’t believe he’s going to save Commander Wolffe himself.

He thinks of Wolffe and all of the memories they share. Wolfpack Red to Wolfpack Grey, all of those gunships decorated with the Plo’s Bros decals, and… oh. Oh no. How will Wolffe react to being in control of himself again? To knowing that General Koon was shot down by his own men? Rex grimaces and turns away, focusing on keying in the coordinates to his destination.

The ship slips into hyperspace and he goes to the little medbay located in the back of the ship to get things set up. There’s enough technology to perform a brain surgery with hopefully no problems. It’s not as quick or fancy as the setup used on the venator to free Rex from his chip, but he’s pretty sure that that surgery was so quick because of Ahsoka and whatever she did with the Force. Oh well.

With the preparations made and not long before the ship comes out of hyperspace, Rex hopes to whatever higher being that’s out there that he can save Wolffe. He knows how crushing a failure would be, ponders on consequences and outcomes as he holds his helmet in his hands.

The remaining time in hyperspace is spent on planning and running over all the different possibilities. He keeps his nerves together, pretends that this is just another battle for a soldier to face. Except instead of his brothers around him, the objective _is_ his brothers.

Finally, the blue and white swirls of hyperspace disperse and the ship shudders as it drops into regular space. He gets ready at the controls and starts the flight towards the designated areas.

It doesn’t take long before he finds Wolffe on an Imperial outpost on one of the planets he was reported to be on. A short chase leads Wolffe away from whatever other forces are there. He still has his old armor, but that’s about the only part of him that’s still himself. Of course, another thing he still has is his skill, and he doesn’t listen to Rex when he tries to talk him down.

Wolffe puts up a good fight, but as Rex keeps talking to him, begging him to remember something, he falters. The hesitation is just enough for Rex to stun him, and before long, they’re both on Rex’s ship as it takes to the sky again.

The surgery is performed, the chip is taken out, and despite all of the risks, Wolffe comes out physically okay. There is confusion and plenty of heartwrenching tears when he wakes up, so Rex holds him and tells him that it’s okay, that things will get better. Wolffe is broken and angry and so utterly devastated, but he’s here and he is not alone. 

Rex helps Wolffe throughout the following days. He knows the pain that his brother feels all too well and aims to share it, to make it easier for Wolffe to bear, because no one should have to suffer all of that alone. 

It takes a while, but Wolffe starts to heal. He joins Rex on jobs, manages to get some actually good alcohol for the two to share, and starts smiling more. He sees the flimsibook a few times but he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he simply asks if he can write a page, and Rex obliges. Wolffe writes about the original Wolfpack and General Koon before switching towards the darker memories, those of the _Malevolence_ and Khorm and the whole Order itself. He offers to tear out the page afterwards, but Rex says it’s fine. The journal can be shared a little bit and he knows that Wolffe will respect his privacy just as much as Rex respects his.

They’re sitting outside one night, little drinks in hand, when Wolffe says, “Heard a lot of things back in the war about the Force and whatever afterlife there is being wasted on the dead.” He waits, as if expecting Rex to comment on that, before continuing. “I don’t think so. There is nothing wasted on the brothers marching away.”

Wolffe knows loss. He knows what losing almost an entire battalion feels like, and yet it still hurts for him, too. He looks down into his drink with an expression that’s half a smile and half a sorrowful grimace, silver eye glinting in the light that spills from nearby buildings. 

After a moment, he raises his drink. “For a better tomorrow,” he offers, and nothing else.

“For a better tomorrow,” Rex echoes. That’s what they have to live for, in the end. The hope that tomorrow will be a little nicer. He doesn’t ever think he’ll stop fighting for that, because as long as he has someone at his side, people to save, somewhat of a future to look forward to. So he toasts to Wolffe’s words and waits for that tomorrow to come.

* * *

_More leads, more rumors, and Wolffe and Gregor and I are ready. I know we’re going to be okay. We have each other, and for now, that’s good. There is always going to be a part of me that was left buried in those graves at the crashed venator, and there will always be something missing, but there’s enough of me to be in the moment now._

_So to whoever finds this journal, whether you stole it or just came across it, whether I’m dead or just not there right now; remember our tragedy, but also remember our hope. Remember the lost battles and the shouting victories. Remember our names and our stories. You don’t have to tell anybody else, but never forget any of this. Vode An._

_Signing off,_

_Rex_

**Author's Note:**

> yeehaw
> 
> So, who do you think eventually finds the journal?
> 
> Kudos to you if you get all of the comic book references (the disguise one in that podracing comic thing that I forget the name of and Commander Mag and Shiv from the webcomic that serves as a prequel to the Trespassers episode).
> 
> Title of the story is from the song Only Children by Jason Isbell because that song messes me up every time I listen to it. A lot of the song is about loss and mourning and ouch, it hurts. Anyways, I wanted to write some things inspired by the song, and the line of "maybe these words will hold the beast back" wouldn't leave me alone. A lot of people have told me to use journaling as a sort of coping mechanism, but I have writing for that. Ultimately, I decided to project some ideas and coping mechanisms into this story, along with a few references to the song itself. 
> 
> On another note, hi Clone Wars fandom, my name is Rookie and I really like writing stories about people wearing armor in space. I'm a little wary to join the fandom fully but you guys can have a little angst, as a treat. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed!


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